Cycles of Debt
by JayJ1
Summary: He is the only sovereign here; patron and mock king of the desperate souls. And here she sat barely before him, sickly and alone, and merely the shell of a forgotten princess.


It begins with Rumplestiltskin sitting upon an extravagant throne of crushed velvet and gold, with _her_ seated before him, in bland contrast, in a plain chair of simple but rich woodwork.

It's begun here in appearances—ostensibly—between the two of them—with a deliberate and contemptuous display of visual contraries. For it was she, with that inherently blonde and sun kissed hair of hers and fairest of all fair features, who was of royal decent and—well, _mostly_—pure bloodline. While it was he who was once born the lowly son of a thief, and who had for time been nothing more than a simpleminded and cowardly spinner of fine wool.

But those times have come and gone, changed them; now neither is who they once were. Or who they thought they would be. He is the only sovereign here; patron and mock king of the desperate souls. And here she sat barely before him, sickly and alone, and merely the shell of a forgotten princess.

That is all that is left, and all that matters still. And maybe she's learned her place in this harsh tale of life twisted as it has become. And even perhaps, how the plot may thicken because of it

It's likely why she has come; sought him out within the confines of his Dark Castle. Had found him tinkering away with his assorted strands of spun and charmed thread; dispassionately working and lurking amongst his spectacular and perverse gallery of precious treasures forfeited and lost in his favor from those most desperate and tragic of fools.

Not unlike herself, he wagers.

She coughs out loud. It breaks the mood. A sound both bleak and miserable and so Rumplestiltskin raises a pointed brow at her. Gives a stare; one unimpressed by the pooling of water currently accumulating at her feet. Staining and seeping into his exquisite and priceless rug.

She is shivering, and soaked to the bone. Her wet cloak lays scattered on the floor discarded; ruined and abandoned in careless haste.

The climate in his realm is commonly dreary, he knows this all too well. Its biting cold and near constant rains have clearly befallen and gotten the better of her. Dull layers of already lackluster and ragged clothing clings pitifully to her slender body like a second skin newly rotted. Whilst her long and untamed hair pours over her deceptively pretty face falling across her eyes and down her cheeks like the remnants of tears shed.

But he offers her no warmth; only an appraising gaze and one of calculating consideration.

For the two of them have yet to exchange a single spoken word between them since her abrupt arrival. He'd merely graced her intrusion into his home with an annoyed but lewd glare before directing her to sit and wait with a quick snap of his wrist to the chair in which she resides and currently ruins.

She'd done so without question and he'd subsequently went about ignoring her for it—with only the occasional glance thrown in her general direction—as he set about completing the work she had interrupted upon her grand entrance.

Only once finished had he deemed it fit to saunter over towards her and fully show an acknowledgement to her presence. He'd then sat on his fancy looking chair, and that had been that.

Now he's bidding his time, and actively wasting hers.

It seemed there was no rush in him for pursuing the inevitable, she surmised to herself, as she waited with an uncommon degree of patience for him to speak first. Or at least engage her in some form or manner beyond just staring at her. And she's resentfully inclined to allow him the pleasure of this sordid victory over the moment.

There's not much else she can do. She is not herself anymore. This is important for her to remember.

So silence reigns on. She can only watch as he watches her. And sees with trained eyes as his talon-like nails methodically begin to claw against the dark wood of his chair with studious contemplation. While she in posturing turn adamantly strives not to make her suffering known.

Or, at least, not appear so blatantly obvious.

She stubbornly tries to keep her chilled lips from quivering too harshly. Nor does she attempt to encircle her arms around herself in an effort to trap and conserve what little heat still remains within her body despite being placed in a spot situated a great deal away from the roaring warmth of the fireplace. She carries through with willful intention, and because there is a sweet comfort that comes with exhibiting such a minor display of enduring resolve and strength, even if she must suffer its cost to do so.

Such things may be all she has left.

Still, she can't help but find the silence in the room stifling and quite off-putting. It makes her skin crawl in deliberate and uncomfortable ways. So it's surprisingly difficult not to let show her discomfort with it. For it feels too much like there's something loitering amongst the multitude of shadows surrounding them. Almost like another presence is hidden within the darkness; one that is all seeing, and watching, and waiting for the perfect moment to snap up and break her.

Another heavy and unwanted fit of coughs slips loose from her sore throat, but she quickly forces back down the second round that follows along. Her whole body shakes violently under the strain of her willful resolve, damp hair swaying back and forth rapidly and weeping droplets of water all around her.

Rumplestiltskin leers momentarily at the display her disarray poses to him, but then leans back adamantly against the comforts of his lavish and comfy chair, posture becoming purposeful in its outward disinterest, his leather-clad limbs drawing out lazily across the rich detailing of the coiled armrests, and in doing so giving off an incisive and impressionable tableau of unappreciated boredom.

He's trying to make a point with the gesture. To assert rather broadly that he can't be bothered with this. Or at least her sickly and weakened state. For as soon as she stilled, became controlled, and firmly quieted herself once more, his lips visibly quirked upwards; making them appear twisted but charmed, and more transparent to her than he may have intended for them to be.

There's just something about that crooked grin of his that makes it gravely clear to her that he was not as an unpredictable a creature as she was once led to believe. No, he was as ordinary as any other man in that most fundamental and basic of senses it seemed. Her disappointment in that is fleeting but still felt. She idly wonders why.

There was, after all and above all else, always a cost with him.

A dangerous price to be paid by any and all, no matter the circumstance or persons involved. And she had long ago been warned of that particular fact to the point of both exhaustion and frustration. It's why she had habitually avoided the necessity of this—avoided needing to seek Rumplestiltskin out—for as long as she had. But her hand in this—in this engagement with _him_—had been thrust upon her. And it was her own foolishness that had gotten her stuck in this very damp seat to begin with.

She clasps her hands together, claws away at her numbed flesh, and finally looks away from the infamous Imp. Needing a distraction from her thoughts, brief as it would likely be, she spots hidden away in a stray and darkened corner a set of puppets and takes the time to focus on and admire the craftsmanship of their carved faces. Thinks the pair of them to be quite beautiful in their detail and realism but soon notices that their strings have become entwined and twisted together in too many knots to unravel.

She frowns deeply at the sight.

There's an irony in that, she can't help but think. It's a thought, but then it passes. So she looks back at the mockery of a man notorious for his deal making; the Dark One, as he is known to common folk above all else though she doesn't think to call him that herself.

It's strange for her to suppose that it would feel wrong against her lips, and yet she does. She purses her mouth together in bewilderment but stiffens awkwardly as she catches Rumplestiltskin still staring back at her attentively.

He appeared meticulously curious, his posture straightening and soon leaning forward, and hands becoming steepled under his chin as he regarded her without care or mercy; likely assessing her intent for coming to his cursed castle, making some semblance of sense for her presence and perhaps her downtrodden appearance, while also trying to find that particular thread of weakness in her to be pulled and exploited to his eventual benefit.

She elects only to sit there quietly and let him do what he will. Nothing else happens for a time. Her nails start to dig in a bit deeper but she doesn't attempt to look away from him again.

Finally, having taken keen notice of her growing discomfort and prolonged it to his satisfaction, he slouches back into his throne, raises a hand up, and waves it at her once; with words left unspoken.

He's urging her to come closer.

Ushers her to do so in the most belittling manner one can towards a woman of her once prestigious birth and ranking; by addressing her as nothing at all.

And without a name or title given he's gone and reduced her to nearly nothing, made her appear meaningless and seemingly an insignificant player in these potential dealings between them. An afterthought to him or an unwanted inconvenience at best.

It was crude, and unnecessary. And that likely would have bothered her before. Even set her off in a confrontational manner most unbefitting of a lady of her former and prominent upbringing—though the delighted pride of her late father—but now she simply rises from her soggy seat and walks towards Rumplestiltskin without a single act or vocal protest.

She no longer had the heart for it.

As she silently moves into the deep dark depths of his proximity she can feel the individual droplets of water gliding down her moistened flesh; teasing, but crudely toying with her skin like the violating touches of unseemly fingertips. She grows overtly aware of the sensation it brings her, and how her body response to its stimulus, as she settles herself into the space closest to him.

She tries not to let it show. But it's hard to fight these types of budding urges. She thinks that may be the point of them though she cannot fully comprehend their purpose or meaning here.

Rumplestiltskin tilts his head up slightly and regarded the woman before him for a moment—now standing there, seemingly disjointed and distracted—before extending an arm out to bare an open palm at her. Obligingly, she places her own upon it. His callous fingers curl one by one around her cold hand.

She finds his touch to be far more heated than she would have thought. It's soothing in a small way but there's also an edge of possessiveness in his pull as he yanks her hand towards him unexpectedly, and rather roughly. Her body jerks forward awkwardly by the suddenness of it but otherwise remains mostly unmoved. He eyes her carefully; studies her responses to his touch. She wonders if he wanted her to react, to do something.

What would her noble mother have done?

Not this, she thinks surely. But her mother wasn't here anymore.

He deliberately brings her hand even closer before drawing the back of it up towards his mouth and dragging his lips along the untarnished planes of her pallid flesh. They unabashedly linger against the curvatures of her boney knuckles.

The feel of her is sharp; light but mocking. And still it does things to him.

It's stirring, and reminds him starkly of his dark and selfish tendencies. And that he had wanted her once. For a time, longer than most—a temptation formed, flourished, and then decimated; it's remains forgotten and left to decay.

His grainy fingers tighten at the memory, crushing over the brittle softness of her own; trapping them together cruelly. But she makes not a sound as he does. Nor does she show any visible indication of hurt or fear for his current conduct despite the tense and painful grip he held against her.

She is silent, and only waiting.

He abruptly lets go. Her arm slipping away from the confines of his hold and dropping down heavily, falling listlessly to her side as he waves her away as flippantly as he had summoned her near.

She does not linger or show offense. She moves away briskly. She has no allusions. She is neither her mother nor her father in that regard. That he did not expect of her.

So Rumplestiltskin waits for her to sit back down before he spoke, "I suppose you want to kill the Queen."

"It is a thought," is all she says.

He grins candidly at her, "revenge always is, my dearest _Emma_."

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Yes...I know, I know...I've gone completely crazy. Starting another new story. I don't know why I've gone and done, but I have. And you've just read the actual proof of that madness!

Joking aside, I've been stuck in a pretty bad writing slump these last couple of months hence the total lack of progress with my other stories-so sorry about that!- (plus my growing disdain for the show itself isn't helping the matter ether). But better to write something rather than nothing I always say (especially when dealing with writer's block) and this just so happened to be that something. It's AU, clearly, and will hopefully keep my creative juices flowing since I won't be restricted by such annoying little things like canon.

I just hope it's good so far. Or at least interesting. Let me know if you think it's worth continuing.

xoxox


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